The Bound Angel (Sacrilege Rising: Book 1)

Chapter Fourteen

“What’s going on at the Anderson house?” Tom’s booming voice made Meredith jump. He didn’t yell, exactly, he was just naturally loud. And today he was annoyed. One of their clients backed out of a job that was supposed to be starting… right now. Tiff and her crew were lounging around the office waiting for new directions, and, as Tom liked to remind everyone, time was money.

Meredith answered, “They’re out of town until next week and we don’t have a key.” She scanned the schedule, feeling the pressure, mentally assessing and discarding options for Tiff’s crew to pivot. Carlo’s Pizza was busy this time of day and couldn’t accommodate them without losing customers, so that was out. They’d earned a contract to paint three post offices in the area, but rescheduling on the government didn’t seem like a good idea.

“Right,” Tom grumbled as he returned to his office.

The Worthington property? Was the drywall done yet?

“What about the Worthington property?” Tom’s voice barked like a cannon as he stepped back out from his office and Meredith jumped again. He was smashing a crumpled piece of paper between his palms.

She gave him a look. “The dry wall won’t be finished until tomorrow, and will you please stop yelling?”

“Right, right,” he mumbled, “sorry.”

The Porter house? That might work. She opened the file and scanned the contractor’s construction plan. Plumbing was done last week. Electrical the week before. Tile and floors? Done and done. Dry wall… where was the dry wall? There. Done.

“The Porters!” Meredith declared and stood up, sending her chair rolling across the floor.

“Call them,” Tom told her. Then to Tiff, “Go.” He looked over Meredith’s shoulder at her screen, doing some quick mental gymnastics. “You don’t need so much help, but it’s not your fault, so everyone works today.”

Tiff and her crew hurried out the door.

“Good work,” Tom said as he retrieved her chair, wheeling it back to her. “And it’s good to have you back.” He rarely smiled. It felt good.

She’d told her boss that she was sick the last few days and didn’t want to think about that right now. “Thank you,” she said with a little bow. It was nice to be acknowledged for doing well. It felt good to be needed, even if it was for something as dumb as scheduling. The phone rang in Tom’s office. Someone had his direct line. He tossed the paper ball towards the little trash can next to Meredith’s desk, where it ricocheted off the rim and tumbled to the floor.

“Don’t get that,” he ordered as she moved to pick it up. After waiting for her to sit back down, he returned to his office and closed the door behind him.

Just like that, she was alone. A moment ago, the shop was busy. More than busy, it was ready to burst. There was idle chatter, squeaking chairs, and Tom’s presence, all coming together and giving the place an energy. Plus, a problem needed solving. The task took her whole attention, and the pressure of everyone watching amped it up even more. It was the best distraction she’d had in days. And in an instant, it was all gone.

After the crew departed and Tom was sequestered in his office, Meredith was left with the sound of her keyboard clattering as she adjusted the schedule. When that was finished, there was nothing left to keep the silence at bay. It intruded on her thoughts, like a subtle pressure that was finally allowed in. She swiveled in her chair just to break it. She’d heard someone from the army say that most of war was time spent waiting, woven with bursts of intensity. That was how she felt now. Not that her cozy little office job was anything like war, but still. The schedule was done. The crisis was solved and the bills were up to date. Now her job was literally waiting for the phone to ring. There was a hole in her day, and something had to fill it.

Her attention drifted to the crumpled-up paper ball lying on the floor. She lingered on it. That’s exactly where her coffee cup skidded to a halt the other night, when she was working late, alone. Before the lights blew out and the door creaked open in the dark. Before the footsteps.

Bits and pieces were still coming back. She had to talk to Mike. He had some explaining to do, not that it was his fault. The haunted look on his face as they left the warehouse matched the others’. He wasn’t the one who kidnapped them, and from what she could remember, he’d had as little control over the situation as the rest of them, even if he clearly enjoyed himself.

Three hot, willing women at his beck and call? What guy could, or would, say no to that? Even if he was in his right mind, would he have turned them down? And from the look in his eyes afterwards, he clearly was not in his right mind. Meredith wasn’t exactly complaining, either. It was by far the best sex of her life, in another stratosphere of anything she’d ever experienced. She could still remember fireworks going off in her head. No, it wasn’t the sex that scared her, and it wasn’t Mike’s fault.

She would have to talk to the other girls, too. She didn’t know anything other than their names, but now they were intimately familiar. She’d been with Mike before. He, at least, was a friend. The others were strangers. Where would they even begin?

As she processed their situation, Meredith knew she was intentionally keeping her thoughts on these topics. She was walking a tightrope, telling herself to keep looking forward. Don’t look down. Each time her thoughts drifted from the next step in front of her, she forced herself back on track. Because if she looked down, if she leaned too far to one side or the other, she would have to face facts she wasn’t ready for.

In her mind, a pair of gorgeous blue eyes opened in the dark. A voice spoke, and her body hummed in response, spreading her legs around his waist. Flames grew and shadows stretched. Mike’s wants became her wants. His needs were her needs. His pleasure fanned the flame of her own pleasure. All at the encouragement of that voice. Her voice. The midnight-haired beauty. The demon. It was a silly word, evoking memories of children’s books and Sunday school, but Meredith didn’t feel silly now.

What if it happened again? What if she-

Tom’s door slammed against the wall as he shoved it open. She jumped for a third time, almost out of her chair, and her boss froze at her glare. He held his hands up in surrender and said, “Sorry. Just wanted to pick this up.” He leaned down and grabbed the crumpled paper ball before dropping it in the trash.

“It’s fine,” she grumbled back. As Tom turned back toward his office, she felt the silence waiting just out of sight. Before he closed his door again she asked, “Do you mind if I play some music?”

***

“Keep it down, bitch,” Allie grumbled as she stomped into the living room.

Heather rolled her eyes and made no move to turn down the music. “Nice to see you, too. Next time you decide to go missing you should probably tell your roommate, just so she doesn’t call the cops or anything.”

Allie had a snappy answer primed, but it unraveled at the blonde’s comment. “Did you?”

Heather stared at her from their little kitchen where she was making coffee, stretching the moment out to emphasize her point, before finally answering, “No. But I was close.”

Allie exhaled.

“Where were you anyway?”

“Nowhere. At a friend’s.”

“Mmhmm,” Heather eyed her. “Don’t you have class or something?”

Allie snorted. Classes were a joke. College was easy, and she was barely making an effort. Every step of the way, from grade school to high school, they told her the next step would be so much harder and she wouldn’t be able to get away with half-assing it for much longer.

And now here she was, in college, half-assing it and getting away with it. If minimal effort was enough to get As, why do any more than that? The whole thing was just so damn boring. Class, homework, papers, exams. How did people stand it? They were all bad, but Econ was the worst. God, the way Anders droned on and on put her to sleep. It was a good thing she had Mike to…

Just the thought of him and his big hands and thick forearms made her itch. Where was he now? Probably in his apartment. Should she text him? Or maybe he went home with one of the other girls. That could be fun too.

“Hello? Earth to Allie.” Heather was watching her with raised eyebrows. The blonde really was pretty, which made sense. The top sororities only let the hottest girls in.

“What? Shut up. It’s fine,” Allie grumbled as she joined her in the kitchen. The coffee smelled amazing.

Heather sighed, “Whatever you say.” Then she started dancing to the music, lightly bopping to the catchy beat.

Allie’s eyes drifted involuntarily to her roommate’s ass. Heather was just in a tee shirt and skimpy underwear. She went to the gym even more than Allie, and it showed. Her abs and butt looked amazing as her hips bounced.

“Damn girl, you’re seriously poking out,” Heather said, eyeing her chest as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

Allie didn’t need to look down. Like her roommate, she wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples were stiff against the tank top’s fabric. “Whatever,” she answered. “I like it cold in my room.” She bumped Heather aside with her hips and reached for the coffee pot.

The blonde sniffed and said, “You’re welcome, by the way,” as she moved into the living room, looking back over her shoulder and nodding to Allie’s mug.

Allie didn’t answer. She just poured her own cup and tried not to stare as Heather walked away. Closing her eyes, she held the mug up to her nose and inhaled, enjoying the earthy, nutty scent as it began waking her up. She took small sips as she followed Heather, careful not to burn her mouth. Bringing up her phone, she connected to the Bluetooth, making the speakers chime as Heather’s phone disconnected.

“Hey,” her roommate started to complain as a new song started playing.

It was slow and soulful, replacing the catchy pop Heather liked. Allie was suddenly in the mood for old school jazz. She relaxed to a soothing bass, gentle piano, and soft melody as blurry images of a gorgeous blonde woman swam through her mind.

“This is different,” Heather said, surprised. She sipped her own coffee. “It’s a little weird. I feel like I should be complaining about tattoos or interracial marriage. But not bad.” She set her cup down, put her hands behind her head, closed her eyes, and leaned back as the saxophone began to sing.

It gave Allie time for a good, long look. Her roommate’s legs were shapely and toned, and led up to her spectacular butt. Her abs were tight, and she had bigger tits than a girl that fit had any right to.

Allie would have been jealous, but as hot as Heather was, she knew she looked better. The thought was a surprise. She’d never considered the blonde, or any girl for that matter, like that before. The itch was back and stronger than ever. It was like a hive of termites, constantly nibbling at the back of her mind, and she had to rub her legs together just to stay grounded.

Heather cracked an eye open while Allie shifted in her seat. “You look like shit, you know.” She was one of the few people that weren’t intimidated by Allie, and one of the fewer still she could tolerate.

“Shut up.”

“Seriously. You look like you’ve been out drinking for four days straight. Where were you really?”

“Out.”

“Yeah. Got that. Out…?” Heather let the question hang.

“At a friend’s.”

“Must be a good friend. How was the sex?”

Allie sipped her coffee.

“Oooh,” her roommate leaned forward, eager now. “Come on. Details.”

Not one to share something like that with anyone, even Heather, and especially not now, Allie rolled her eyes in response.

“Hey now,” Heather said, her voice wry. “After I covered for you here and kept the place clean, sending a little gossip my way is the least you can do.”

That normally wouldn’t have convinced her. There was little covering to be done, and any necessary cleaning was from her own mess. But the slow music and hot coffee soothed Allie’s stubbornness. “It was good, okay?” Better than good, of course, but if she said she wanted to go back there right now it would have really set Heather off.

“Just good? You’re gone for the better part of a week and the sex was, ‘good’? You must really have been hard up for – oh.” Allie looked over to see her roommate staring right back at her. “I see.” What was that about? “Who is he?”

“You don’t know him. A boy from home.”

“The same guy you’ve been seeing almost every night the last few weeks?”

She nodded.

“Hot?”

Allie sipped her coffee and murmured, “Oh yeah.”

“Look at you!” Heather’s sudden delight made her jump. “You weren’t out drinking, you’ve been banging this boy all week! He must have really given it to you good. Was that a limp I saw when you came in?”

Thinking of Mike made Allie feel warm and fuzzy, and the itch was getting harder to ignore. She raised her knees to make it look like she just wanted to rest her feet on the edge of the coffee table, but she was really trying to hide her hand as it rested casually between her legs.

Allie needed relief. The itch needed to be scratched. It was like a sneeze that just wouldn’t come. But she couldn’t do it here, not the way she wanted, not even in her room. The walls weren’t thick enough for that. And she was having trouble keeping her eyes off Heather.

“I need a shower,” she mumbled.

“I bet you do!” Heather teased from behind as she tried not to run out of the room.

She stripped her shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor. Her panties followed, discarded and forgotten. The shower handle was smooth and hard in her hand as she turned it all the way, and it made her think of Mike.

Allie looked at herself in the mirror. Fuck Heather. Not literally. Well, maybe that too. Where was that coming from? But the woman looking back at her was hot. Damn hot. Hotter than that bitch every day of the week. Maybe a little tired around the eyes. There was a little slouch to her shoulders that usually wasn’t there. Glistening moisture caught her eye, where she’d been rubbing her legs together.

Allie stepped into the shower and sighed as piping-hot water rolled over her body. Heat and friction were similar sensations, and she would settle for the former, for now.

She held the wall for support and rubbed fast circles around her clit, determined to relieve the itch herself. It was like electric currents were running under her skin and pulsing in rhythm with her hand. Eager for it to grow, she dipped a finger between slick folds as steam and heat surrounded her. It wasn’t enough to satisfy, not near enough compared to what she was used to now, but it would do.

The pressure radiating from her core swelled as she humped her hand and fingered herself. It was like riding up the lift on a roller coaster, steadily approaching the top of the hill and anxiously awaiting what was on the other side of the peak.

Just as she was about to crest, as she felt alive for the first time since coming home, it vanished. Her body stopped pulsing. The electric current disappeared. Her fingers still rubbed and penetrated, now with even more desperation than before, but to no end. She was fingering herself for no reason.

Beyond frustrated, Allie turned off the water and reached for a towel.

***

It wasn’t adding up. No matter what she tried, the math wasn’t working.

Emma pursed her lips. The book said top line revenue was equal to quantity of units sold multiplied by weighted average sales price. She double checked her math, again, and it all looked right.

The next line, cost of goods sold, should be the price of materials and labor to produce the goods. She calculated the average price points for variable costs like fabrics, sewing thread, and marking tools. Then she estimated the number of employees she would need and how many hours each would work. Again, to her, it looked good.

Finally, there were the fixed costs. Rent, electricity, sewing machines, the list went on. She added those to the variable costs and came up with a total cost for each item. Revenue minus cost of goods should equal gross profit. But it was off. She kept coming up with the same answer she’d put down on the exam. It was wrong then, so it must be wrong now. She slammed her pencil down.

This wasn’t what she imagined when she decided to start her own clothing line. Now the whole thing felt stupid. Numbers and math and formulas and math and equations and math. Emma was creative. She had an eye for what looked good on people. She enjoyed sketching, measuring, cutting. She longed to feel fabric between her fingers and scissors in her hands, to flip through booklets of patterns and textures. This business planning nonsense was infuriating. She would just have to hire an accountant. That’s all there was to it.

On the other side of the table, her sketch pens were lying still and lifeless. Right next to them was a blank sheet of paper, the first on a new, thick notepad. The pens called to her, desperate to be picked up. The paper begged to be filled. But right in front of her was an open textbook and an exam with plenty of red ink. She hesitated. One quick sketch wouldn’t hurt. She needed something to clear her mind, anyway. No use banging her head against the wall. Just a short detour and she would get right back to all the wonderful math.

Emma felt better the moment she picked up the pen. The way it rested in her hand, comfortable and familiar, was like a breath of fresh air. The tip glided over the page, smooth and sure. Short, halting strokes at first as she pushed busy thoughts aside. Then the lines became longer, cleaner, more confident as vision took shape. Before long, the outline of a sundress was finished.

It wasn’t anything complicated. She didn’t have time for an evening gown or accessories or even shoes, she had schoolwork to get back to after all. And even though it was just an empty outline, it was comforting. She seemed to always start with a sundress when she was sketching. Maybe it was because she liked wearing them. They got compliments. Boys noticed. Not that they didn’t at other times, but she could really turn heads in a sundress. Mike’s especially. He was so…

No. Stop it. This wasn’t about him. Emma put her head down and set pen to paper again, ignoring the textbook. A pattern had come to mind. She started with the outline of a simple top. The sharp angle of a neckline came to life first. Then the shoulders, they could have a little flare to them. Buttons? They appeared down the center, but they didn’t look quite right. She erased, then added them back, but bigger this time. Bolder. They should have a glossy, metallic look. Then the sleeves, cut at three-quarters length, like the blazers that were hot not that long ago. And finally, the pattern. It was asymmetrical. A navy-blue backdrop with blooming flowers crawling up one side. Creamy yellow and cerulean blue and dark crimson petals blossomed along the path her pens traced. But they were subtle. Not overly large or tacky, just a nod to something delicate and pretty. A little burst of color.

Emma set her pen down and leaned back. Not her best work, but this was more about process than results. She liked the pattern, but maybe not the shape of the top. It would go better on an evening dress. The tip of her pen touched the paper again.

She was more sure of herself this time and the dress quickly took shape. It was cinched to one hip, drawing the eye to that spot. The next natural landing point for the eye was the shoulder over that hip, which she left bare. It needed a ruffled fabric, so it looked like one of those foldable Chinese fans. Then, finally, the pattern. The flowers could be bolder now. This piece wanted to be noticed.

Emma leaned back again. Better this time. She picked up another pen. The shoes that went with a dress like that would have to be special. As she drew, the sketched outline of that first sundress caught her eye. It needed to be filled in. Black would look nice and mysterious. A simple black dress, then back to the shoes. Strappy wedges would do nicely.

The original blouse she drew, the first one with the pattern, was bothering her. The neckline should be deeper. Then several designs for accessories came to life in her mind like the blooming flowers of her pattern, and they quickly appeared on the page.

But before the second bag was finished, the evening dress needed an adjustment. It was too long. Much too long. In this case, shorter was better. And while she was making that change, the sundress, now black and sultry, would look even more alluring with an open back and thin straps at the shoulders. That was easy enough to fix.

This was her process. An idea would spring to life in her mind, a spark of inspiration from who knew where, to be used as a catalyst for more pieces. It could be anything; a fabric, a cut, a texture. In this case, a pattern.

Once she had a focal point, the rest came easily. The navy-blue backdrop with asymmetrical flowers was her focal point now. But that first sundress kept stealing her attention. Like the evening gown before, it needed to be shorter. And black heels had to go with it, of course, they would just take a second.

Sunlight faded from the kitchen window as Emma lost herself in her sketches. It was both all-consuming and freeing. She could turn her brain off and simply let her instincts guide her hand. She’d been stressing about Mike and the other girls for days. But while she was sketching, that faded into the background until all that mattered was the next line.

Eventually, her hand began to cramp. She set the pens down and spread out her fingers, flexing them to relieve the tension. Then she gripped her wrist and rolled it in progressively wider circles, encouraging blood to flow back into the sore joints. Once it was feeling better, Emma glanced down at her work.

She froze. This wasn’t what she’d drawn. Where did these come from? They couldn’t be what she’d drawn.

Every piece was cut short, or low, or had a plunging neckline. Or was strapless. Or backless. You couldn’t wear any of these out in public, they were practically lingerie. She’d never drawn clothes this scandalous in her life. What was the matter with her? How could this happen? Was she going mad?

Her eyes lingered on the sundress, the very first piece she’d drawn. Except, it wasn’t a dress as much as a come-and-get-me temptation. It was barely long enough to cover your ass. Maybe not even that long. The thin straps at the shoulders would fall to a light breeze. The neckline was…

Wait. She’d seen this dress before. In her dreams and half-baked memories. That woman was wearing it. That gorgeous woman with glossy black hair and a perfect body and sultry smile. Emma’s broken memories swirled around her like a hurricane around its eye. The Dark Lady. That name just popped into her head.

Startled, Emma stood up and backed away from the table. When had it gotten so dark out? How long had she been drawing? The exam she was supposed to be reviewing was still just lying there, covered in red ink.

Her stomach rumbled, and she remembered she hadn’t been to the grocery store since she got back. She couldn’t do pizza again, as the pair of open boxes on the counter attested to. With a sigh, Emma took out her phone and began to text Mike. She needed to figure out what was going on in her head, and also needed food. Time to kill two birds with one stone.